


3 Times Sam Winchester Proposed To Dean and The 1 Time He Said Fuck It, Why Not

by RavenGrey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Sam, First Kisses, Fluff and Angst, Hallucifer, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Plans to elope, Sam leaving for Stanford, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Winchesters getting married because I said so, Winchesters through the years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Sammy proposes to him the little dude is 6 and snaggle-toothed. The ring he slides onto Dean’s finger is a bread tie wrapped around a couple of times with a white bead in the center.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 Times Sam Winchester Proposed To Dean and The 1 Time He Said Fuck It, Why Not

**Author's Note:**

> Dumb thing is dumb. I gave up editing this about halfway through, so any errors are my fault.

            The first time Sammy proposes to him the little dude is 6 and snaggle-toothed. The ring he slides onto Dean’s finger is a bread tie wrapped around a couple of times with a white bead in the center.

             Dean is 10 and trying hard not to laugh at Sam’s hopeful little baby face as he kneels, on both knees, in front of Dean’s dinky motel chair. Dean cracks a smile anyway, goofy grin on his goofy little face as Sam holds his hand with both of his.

            “Sammy, we’re not gettin’ married.” Dean says, looking at Sam over his comic. His face falls, utter devastation writ across his chubby baby face. He looks absolutely crushed and Dean feels like a jack-ass.

            “Why not.” Sam’s bottom lip sticks out and he grips Dean’s hand intently.

             “’Cause you’re 6 and I’m 10 and dad would _kill_ us.” Dean says, exasperated. He tries to wriggle his hand out of Sammy’s to no avail.

            Sam considers that for a second, gripping Dean’s hand tightly and then he nods solemnly.

            “M’ gonna marry you, some day, and it’s gonna be awesome.” Sam says with quiet severity that doesn’t sound like it should come from a 6 year old.

            “’Course you are Sammy.” Dean says, incredibly sarcastic for a 10 year old. He slips the ring off and hands it back to him.

             Sam kisses the back of his hand, a smushy thing that makes Dean wrinkle his nose.

            “Ugh, Sammy, gross.” Dean groans, wiping his hand off on his torn jeans. Sam pockets the little ring and darts out of the way of Dean’s halfhearted kick, a happy laugh bubbling up.

*

            The second time Sammy proposes he’s 15, hammered drunk and sitting in a sleazy motel parking lot.

            “You staying out here with the used rubbers or you comin’ inside?” Dean asks tiredly, plopping down beside Sam on the curb and stretching his legs out in front of him. The hunt hadn’t gone as smooth as dad had promised and Dean’s really feeling that surprise vamp. He’s a little scraped up, but nothings broken and they’re both alive.

            Sammy’s pissed though, both kinds, and Deans really feeling like an ass-hole as he attempts to scrape his shit-face brother up off the concrete. 

            “With the used rubbers?” Sam asks, laughing over-loud at his own joke as he lies on his back on the warm sidewalk.

            Dean snorts and slaps the flat of Sam’s stomach. “The fuck does that even mean?”

            Sam giggles again and rubs at his stinging tummy “Fuck if I know. Dad in there?”  

            “Nope.” Dean pops the ‘p’ and flops back beside Sam. The stars aren’t particularly spectacular, what with the smog and the scraggly tree branches, but Sam’s looking up at them like they’re something.

             There’s a couple heavy beats of silence, probably fraught with meaning or some shit, and then Sam breaks it with the last question Dean wants to answer right now.   

            “Why’d you leave me?” Sam asks, face crumpling with hurt.  

            “You think I wanted to leave you here? In this disease riddled dump?” Dean huffs, rolling onto his side with a groan. “M’surprised you didn’t get crotch-rot just from opening the door.”

            Sam rolls onto his side with a hazy laugh “If I din’t get it from th’ door I probably got it from the parkin’ lot.”

             “Probably.” Dean agrees easily, eyes half-lidded in the dark.

             It’s warm out and despite the reek of cigarettes and cheap prostitutes, Dean’s almost falling asleep. Which is probably ten kinds of dangerous. Dad sure knows how to pick ‘em when it comes to shitty motels.

            “Listen dude, I’m about to drop,” he sits up with a groan, back aching, and puts his hands on his knees “please just fucking come inside. You can bitch me out from the relative safety of our craptastic room.”

            Sam snorts and peruses the stars for another couple of minutes while Dean stares absently at a splotch of brown-ish black that’s either car fluid of some sort or blood.

 Sam’s pretty drunk, so it could be that, but Dean looks like a grungy Adonis, lit up from behind by the dingy overhead light.

            Sam sits up slow, because his stomach is sloshing around and while a nice puddle of puke would probably add to the ambience of the parking lot, the whisky hadn’t felt good going down, he doubts it’d be any better coming up. 

            He turns to look at Dean, battered and bruised and just the littlest bit bloody, and asks his brother to marry him for the second time.

             Dean tips his head back and laughs, rough and tired, eyes crinkling as he smiles. He scrubs a hand through his hair and stands up. His back pops and he stretches, a pained groan rumbling up from low in his throat.

            “M’not gonna marry you Sammy, you don’t have a ring.” Dean says, like that’s the real reason he can’t marry his underage kid brother.

             “Sure I do.” Sam grumbles haughtily. He calmly pulls out his wallet and offers Dean the twist tie ring, bead chipped in places and the twisty tie ripped to the wire in all but a few spots.

            Dean remembers it, vaguely, and can’t help the surprised chuckle as Sam wobbles onto his knee.

            “And it’s a very beautiful ring, but I still can’t marry you.” Dean steadies Sam’s shoulders so he doesn’t face plant.

            “Why not.”

            “Causeeee, you’re 15 and I’m 19 and dad would _still_ fucking kill us?” It sounds like a question towards the end there and Sam’s huffs irritably.

            “We could run away.” Sam offers hopefully.

            “He’d find us, you know he would Sammy. How ‘bout this,” Dean says while helping Sam to his feet “I’ll marry you,” Sam’s face lights up “ _when_ you’re 18.”

            It crumples again and he pouts. “Marry me now.”

            “That, Sammy mah boy, is illegal.” Dean huffs as he wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulder “I’ll marry ya when you’re 18 and no sooner than that.”

            When Dean’s got him in bed, on top of the covers and on a sheet they carry with them to avoid sleeping on gross motel beds Sammy grabs him tight by the shirt and tugs him down.

            Sam’s breath is like pure gasoline, but Dean doesn’t pull away when Sam mumbles right in his face “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

            Dean leans in, because there’s no way in hell Sam’s gonna remember it tomorrow, and kisses his sweaty forehead. Sam smiles, sleepy and soft, and Dean drops his jacket on top of him.

 *

            “You promised.” Sam’s voice cracks.

            Dean’s heart is breaking, just a little, as Sam looks at him from across the room. He’s on the other queen, long gangly legs tucked up around his chin. Sam doesn’t look 18, curled in on himself.

             In his defense, he’s only been 18 a couple of days. His acceptance letter had come 3 days before that.

            “You said you didn’t remember.” Dean says flatly, little flare of panic burning like battery acid in his stomach.

            “I lied.” Sam sounds bitter, almost resigned, and Dean wonders when a childhood promise turned into something far more pivotal.  

            “Obviously.” Dean says with a hard laugh. He flops back onto the bed, eyes on the water-logged ceiling. They feel hot and gritty and Dean rubs at them.

            “Sammy-” Dean starts, lost and tired and not near drunk enough. Sam cuts him off.

            “You promised, Dean, in the parking lot of the one of the crappiest motels I’ve ever seen, you promised me.” Sam unwinds from the bed, rolling neatly to his feet and then dropping down between Dean’s feet.

            Dean’s worn boots on either side of his legs; he kneels if front of Dean for the 3rd time. He slaps Dean’s knee to get his attention and waits quietly until he sits up.

            “We could run away, go to Vegas, get married by Elvis,” Sam promises lowly, hope still burning somewhere inside of him “we’d be gone a coupla days, tops, dad’ll only throw a minor bitch-fit.”

            “Elvis, huh?” Dean says with a voice like jagged glass.

            “Elvis or Batman, I don’t give a crap Dean, just marry me.” Sam looks up into Dean’s freckled face, hope flickering in his eyes. “Please Dean.”

            Dean burns, good and bad, as he looks into Sam’s face, his Sammy, and tries not to let his devastation show. The ‘yes’ stings his tongue and he swallows it down.

            “I can’t Sammy, Dad will kill us.” Dean rasps, head in his hand as he watches the hurt sweep across Sam’s face.

            Sam breathes out, harsh and sharp, and sucks in a shuddery gasp that tears at his throat. It hurts, course it does, but he’d been ready for it. It doesn’t devastate him, but it aches, like a torn muscle.

             “Alright.” Sam says, calm and clear as he gets to his feet. He leaves Dean alone in the gaudy motel room, eyes on his boots and not on the pained slump of Sam’s shoulders.

            It’s a hard choice, but when Sam thinks about it staying would have been so much worse. When he breaks it to dad, the screaming is intense, but Sam doesn’t back down. He’s going to Stanford, one way or another. Dad leaves to get spectacularly drunk and Sam packs his meager possessions in a furious silence.

             Dean sits in the brutal quiet they leave in their wake, sits there staring at his hands while Sam stalks around the room.

            “When do you leave?” Dean’s voice is small, quiet and oddly raw. Sam goes rigid for just a second and Dean’s stomach twists.

            “Tomorrow,” Sam says, and it’s final.

            Dean drives him to the bus-stop while dad sleeps off last night’s feelings.

            “You know why I can’t, don’t you Sammy?” Dean asks, ragged and bleeding out slow on the inside as Sam climbs out of the impala and snags his duffle. His hands are tight around the steering wheel and it’s just about killing him to let Sammy go.

             Sam’s shoulders are set and his stride is long and everything inside of Dean feels tight and hollow as Sam reaches the bus stop and leans against the sign. Sam breathes out hard through his nose, tries not to hold Dean to a promise he had made to a drunk 15 year old.

            “Because I’m 18 and you’re 22 and _dad_ would kill us.” Sam says, smooth and caustic.

             Dean swallows around the lump in his throat and climbs out of the car. Sam barely even looks at him. He bumps Sam’s shoulder and says “Nah, I was gonna go with we’re brothers and it’s highly fucking illegal, but if you want to be a dick about it-”

            Sam laughs despite himself and bumps him back. “Fuck you.” He says placidly.

            They wait in the warm quiet, shoulder to shoulder. When the bus rolls up, Dean pulls Sam in close, both arms wrapped tight around him. Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck and breathes him in.

             Dean clings to him like if he holds him tight enough he’ll get to keep him.

             “Love you Sammy.”

             Sam’s smile is like jagged sunshine when he pulls away and Dean levels a half-cocked smile at him that bleeds hurt.

            “Love you too Dean.” Sam says, rising up on his tippy-toes a little and bumping his mouth against Dean’s. It’s messy and Dean’s gaping and Sam smiles, tinny and sad, as the bus rolls up.

 One last bittersweet nudge of Sam’s lips against Dean’s and then Sam’s climbing on the bus and leaving his old life, and Dean, behind.  

*

            He finds it in Sam’s wallet, the bread tie worn to wire, the little bead grey with age. He’d been dealing, right up until then. But now, in the room with Sammy’s cooling body, he doesn’t know how to fucking deal. He flings the wallet away; he’s not sure why he opened it in the first place, but he keeps the ring.

            Has a hard time not crushing the stupid fucking thing as he slides to the floor and props his back against the table. It sits in his palm, inconspicuous and unimportant and damn if it don’t feel like Dean’s heart is ripping itself into thin shreds.

            It’s pathetic, he thinks, how such a little thing could just knock him flat, but his breaths come like they hurt and Sam is dead. His Sam, the brother he’d raised and loved and lost, is dead because he hadn’t been good enough or fast enough or smart enough to keep one of the only good things in his life.

            Dean chokes on a burst of laughter that feels like razor-wire. He closes his fingers carefully around the ring, careful not to crush it even though it’s seen hell.

             Sammy had kept it. Sammy had fucking kept it and Dean’s losing it. His brother’s blood is drying cold and sticky to his skin and Sam had kept the ring he’d proposed to Dean with when he was 15.

            A hot tear cuts through the layer of sweat and grime on his face and a wounded animal sound punches up from deep in his belly. He gets shakily to his feet, stomach in sick knots.

             Sam’s lips are devoid of color, blue-ish grey circles under eyes that should glow like pure autumn and Dean’s slipping the ring back into Sam’s wallet and shoving it back into Sam’s pocket. He’s out the door and on his way to the nearest crossroads before Sam’s blood can even start to pool.

            That ring’s seen hell and so will he by the time it’s all said and done, but right now, Sammy’s alive and there’s shit that needs to be done and that’s good enough for Dean.           

            *

            When Dean claws his way out of the earth, he’s not thinking about much other than getting something to drink. His mouth tastes like the ultimate ass, probably a side effect of ya know, being in hell, and he feels like hammered dog-crap.

            It isn’t until he stumbles into the gas-station that he notices the ring on his finger. It’s also when something blows out the windows and his eardrums. Hard to be sentimental when your eardrums are ringing and you’re covered in broken glass.

            Dean manages though, once he gets outside and to the payphone. Sammy’s voice is like a temporary balm on his jagged soul and his eyes burn hot as he cradles the phone against his ear longer than is strictly necessary after Sam hangs up.

 The beaten bread-tie is one of the best things he’s ever seen and he leaves it on his finger as he starts towards Bobby’s.

            *

            It starts with Dean begging Sam to stop what he’s doing with Ruby and ends with Sam punching the ever living shit out of him.

             It hurts, but not near as much as losing Sammy to a demon. There’s something in Sam’s eyes, brittle and broken behind the hunger and the addict’s lust that leaves Dean feeling like someone had just flayed his heart and rubbed a hand full of salt on it.

            It wouldn’t be the first time.

            Dean tips his head back, breathes in through his nose because his throat is tight, and calmly, ever so calmly, pulls the bread-tie out of his wallet. Sam’s eyes narrow, a flicker of shock and then he’s got his game face back on, arms loose and ready at his side, shoulders set in a grim line.

            Dean, who has literally been to hell and back, been there fuckin’ done that, honest to God feels like crying when presses the beat up circle of wire into Sam’s unnaturally cool palm. He closes Sam’s fingers around it, crushing it, and kisses Sam’s knuckles.

            His own blood shines on his lips when he pulls away and he leaves Sam’s behind, frozen with hurt and something that looks dangerously close to sorrow.

            *

            Stealing doesn’t bother Dean, not anymore, so he feels no regret what-so-ever when he steals his bread tie back. Dean’s surprised doped up Sammy had kept it. Sam barely notices, so caught up in guilt over unleashing Satan that he only gives a half-assed search when it goes missing.

            Dean keeps it though, a hard reminder of what could have been if he’d just kept his damn promise. Dean doesn’t bring it up, his broken promise or the fact that he regrets not marrying Sammy all the way down to his bones.

            Regret isn’t going to help them stop Lucifer though, so Dean buries it and does his best to stop the devil with his ex-junkie brother whom he just so happens to love more than he loves himself.

            *

            It’s when he’s kneeling in the graveyard that just ate his brother with a newly regenerated angel and a shell-shocked drunk he realizes he should have taken Sammy and got the hell out of dodge when he had the chance.

            Kneeling in the sandy dirt, the ghost of pain licking at his senses from his newly healed face, he wants more than anything to die. But he’d promised. He’d promised Sammy and even though his heart is breaking into a hundred jagged, splintered little pieces he’s a man who keeps his promises.

            Someone’s calling his name, Bobby or Cas, he doesn’t know, doesn’t really care. Dean doesn’t cry, he’s too tired, but he does stare at the dried grass in front of him with empty eyes and an eviscerated heart.

            Cas lays a hand on his shoulder, heavy, meaningful and infinitely sad. Bobby leans on his truck, milk white and grim, trucker hat low on his brow. Dean sits in the dirt and tries not to crack into pieces. His throat is hot and tight and his hands shake as he gouges a furrow in the hard earth where Sammy fell.

            He rips a nail or two, doesn’t feel it, and digs deeper. Dirt grits under his nails, sticks to his bleeding nails. When he’s dug about a foot deep he digs out his wallet. Cas takes a step back and stares intently off into the sky. Bobby finds a grease-covered towel and tries to clean the blood from his skin.

 He finds the ragtag ring and drops it in the hole. Dean covers the hole, presses his hand hard into the dirt and gets to his feet. He’s broken open and carved out but he has a life to live. He promised.

            *

            Dean doesn’t even wanna fucking talk about soulless Sam.

            *

            When they ask Bobby to marry them all Bobby says is “You boys have always been fucking weird, but let’s do this thing.”

 And then he throws back the rest of his whiskey and moves to stand in the middle of his cramped, messy living room.

             Dean looks at Sam, smiling a crinkly eyed smile, and drawls out lazily “Well, he ain’t Elvis.”

            Sam laughs, sheepish and warm “No, he’s better.” He rests his forehead against Dean’s, breathes steady in and out.  

            “How ‘bout you idjits cut the mushy crap and get your asses over here before I sober up.” Bobby grunts from in front of his desk, topping off his whisky.

            “Bobby, if you don’t bleed booze I will be thoroughly shocked.” Dean grins. Bobby throws him a dirty look and takes a glug of whisky.

            Sam laughs while Dean licks his finger and marks an invisible point in the air.

            “Are you even ordained?” Sam asks incredulously, heart pounding a fluttering rhythm against his ribcage. He’s almost scared it isn’t real. That Bobby isn’t taking this all in stride, that Dean isn’t looking at him with determination and love.

             It doesn’t feel real, Lucifer’s being a dick off to the side and it makes Sam nervous, but Dean’s got his fingers locked tight with Sam’s and the feel of Dean’s hand settles his nervous bones.  

            “’Course I am, we doin’ this thing or not?” Bobby snorts and that’s all it takes.

             Dean marries Sam, about a decade or two late, in Bobby’s cluttered living room. Sam breaks off mid-ceremony to dart into the kitchen and comes back with two twisted bread ties.

             Dean smiles so wide his face is in danger of cracking and Bobby looks particularly misty-eyed while he marries his favorite idjits.

            It’s short, kinda blunt, a little rude and by the time Bobby gets to “You may kiss the bride, er your brother? Husband? Hell if I know, just kiss already.” They’re both in danger of crying and for the moment, they’re so damn happy it hurts in the best kind of way.

            The kiss is tentative at first, light and feathery and it sends shivers of heat up and down Sam’s spine. Dean looks at him with bright eyes, brighter than Sam’s seen them in years and smiles against Sam’s lips as he deepens the kiss.

             Dean’s hand comes up, tangles in Sam’s hair and they kiss like fireworks, that slow build and then the explosion of light.

            “Ya’ll jackasses are married, stop macking in my damn living room.” Bobby grunts, flipping open a musty brown book and giving them a pointed look. They break apart, breathing hard and smiling, pressed chest to chest.    

            “I always cry at weddings.” Lucifer sniffles from the couch, reaching up to swipe at an imaginary tear.

            “Fuck you Lucifer.” Sam says, crystal clear, lips brushing against Dean’s.

            “You tell him, Sammy.” Dean murmurs, forehead pressed against Sam’s, hands on his hips. There’s a beat of hurt silence from Satan and then Dean’s got his fingers dug into the healing scar and it’s just the two of them.

            And Bobby.

 


End file.
